


with this much blood in my mouth

by ag_sasami



Series: Whumptober 2020 [1]
Category: Alice (TV 2009)
Genre: Kinktober 2020, Knifeplay, M/M, Oral Sex, Whumptober 2020, they look so pretty when they bleed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-02
Updated: 2020-10-02
Packaged: 2021-03-07 16:49:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,060
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26760907
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ag_sasami/pseuds/ag_sasami
Summary: This March is wild-eyed and monstrous, and still Hatter would want him if he actually ceased to be human. Like the rumors say. (Not yet. He's still wearing his own head.)“Marchy,” he murmurs, “you’ll want to press that pretty blade a bit harder if you intend to kill me.”
Relationships: Hatter/Mad March (Alice TV 2009)
Series: Whumptober 2020 [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1949935
Kudos: 3
Collections: Kinktober 2020, Whumptober 2020





	with this much blood in my mouth

**Author's Note:**

> Kinktober #1: knifeplay  
> Whumptober #10: they look so pretty when they bleed

Mad March’s blade sings against his feverish skin, metal a sharp-cold above the slow trickle of blood from his throat. It’s a different sort of pain than Hatter remembers. Unpleasant. A foreign violence rather than the welcome bruising of familiar fingers.

***

David Hatter first developed a taste for the March Hare while on his back, pressed into the couch in his office. Plush throw soft beneath his head. March’s long fingers buried in his hair and Hatter’s tongue between March's teeth. Mouths dizzying and minds slick. 

Long before the Queen made their business legitimate, March suggested they test the teas they sold. “Just a drop,” he’d said. “It’s good business to know your merch,” he’d said. 

And, well, he wasn’t wrong. 

They’d danced around each other for years, bowstring tension holding them just too far away and two drops of tea was all it took to loose the thing between them. Orange like a low flame, liquid Lust beneath their tongues and exposed skin beneath their fingers. Rutting together—like the reckless kids they tried to pretend they weren’t—and shuddering just out of unison. 

Now, given an excuse to take and to give. Hatter _wanted_ and never again did it take Oysters to encourage March to give; to take. Not that first time, his fingers digging into Hatter’s waist and pounding into him until the desk left Hatter's hips bruised; not when spread wide, left vulnerable and shaking with every stroke of March’s tongue licking him open; not when Hatter, between March's knees, had him sweetly begging, “let me come, please, make me."

***

This March is wild-eyed and monstrous, and still Hatter would want him if he actually ceased to be human. Like the rumors say. (Not _yet_. He's still wearing his own head.) 

“Marchy,” he murmurs, “you’ll want to press that pretty blade a bit harder if you intend to kill me.” The blood drips warm down the side of his neck, an odd contrast to the cool softness of grass beneath him, pinned as he is to his office floor. 

“And if I just want to watch you bleed?” As if to make a point, March laps at the blood on his throat. 

“Then you’d best make it an interesting experience, elsewise I might see fit to fight back.”

***

March joined the resistance after the King showed up with Dormouse, appointed to run the front end of the teahouse with its unprecedented growth. Having grown uncomfortable with the oversight and surveillance—even if Dormie themself was safe enough as an interloper—March found his way into Dodo’s graces and into a smuggler’s shoes. 

“Marchy you’re too soft." Concern in his voice and a hot cup of rooibos tea passed into March's open palms. “You’ll get yourself killed like that, love.”

“Ye of little faith,” he chastised lightly, tilting his head back to grin up at Hatter standing behind the couch. “When have I ever failed to keep us alive?”

“Us? So,” he traced the sharp angle of March’s jaw, fingertips caressed lightly over the bone, “you’ve made an accomplice of me, then.”

March caught his wrist. Pressed a kiss to Hatter’s palm and countered, “when were you ever anything but?”

***

The Two of Clubs lay bleeding on the bank of the river. March cut and bruised, thrown into the wall by a Suit, arm pinned behind his back to near breaking. “You’d do well to stop struggling, Mr. Hare.”

A week later, March limped home dead-eyed with three broken ribs, a shiny new knife, and the beginning of a scar that cut straight through both his lips. The Queen of Hearts made him her assassin, he told Hatter. The King of Hearts saved his head, he explained. 

Hatter broke, then. (Still breaks, even now.) 

No outlet for his fury when he turned his back on March to seek a composure he couldn't find and his legs buckled beneath him. March kneeled behind him, folded himself over Hatter’s shaking back and wrapped arms around him. Held him still through his trembling and the ugly grief torn wet from his throat. 

The Queen of Hearts wanted Hatter’s head in payment for Two’s death, he hadn't said. Too ashamed to admit that he’d agreed to pick off the very revolutionaries for whom he risked his own life, all for the sake of Hatter’s. 

“When have I ever failed to keep us alive?” He whispered it like an apology and buried his own tears in the warm curve of Hatter’s neck.

***

March doesn't ask and Hatter doesn't deny him, hands quick and unusually graceless at the buckle of Hatter’s belt, button, zipper. An abrupt contrast: the cool air of his office and March's hot tongue on his cock. The sting of the blade slipped sharp against his flesh. 

"Snicker-snack," half-hissed for the pain of it. Another quick nick of the knife over his hip, blood thick in Hatter’s veins and welling up above his bones. 

"I'm no Jabberwock." 

"No love," murmured, arching into the drag of March's thumb crosswise against the wound. "Indeed you are not."

***

When rebels vanished, they never came back. That was always the way of it, the risk assumed when going against the Queen. When March vanished, he never came back either. 

***

March swallows him down, throat working around the head of his cock while his blade finds new places to split open Hatter’s skin. Held down by familiar hands as he comes and Hatter can't reach for him like this. Empty and bleeding and _lonely_. A gentle flaying. March tastes like blood and salt—both of them Hatter’s—and he kisses with some renewed desperation for which there'd never before been cause. 

"Hatter," breathed against his mouth. "Love," bitten into his skin. "I missed you. _I miss you_." Forehead tucked beneath Hatter’s jaw. "Missyoumissyoumissyou," with the tip of a blade pressed in, just between his ribs.

"Come home," Hatter doesn't cry. He wants to. Wants to drink a bottle of Nostalgia and drown in it until he's empty of melancholy and all the loss left to go, here, with March's mouth once more on his skin.

"He left it dead," March sings. He withdraws the knife. Presses it flat against Hatter’s chest and his lips to Hatter’s lips. "And with its head he went galumphing back."

***

When March vanished, that too became the way of things. 

**Author's Note:**

> "I don’t know how to stay tender with this much blood in my mouth." -Emma Tranter, from her zine that I cannot find a copy of anywhere :(


End file.
